Ten Paces and Gone

Been thinking. I'm about to leave Connecticut, and how I've been feeling about it is wrapped up in this poem.

Ten Paces

On the shaded and winding roads
swept over by a summer
and drowning in humidity,
all of the cars are passing me by.

Kept between and around each slow beam of sunlight,
I am driving south.
Kept behind the steering wheel, I am drinking coffee
just to stay interested.

These days, writing myself dry in the dark mornings,
I am finding my way clear of
the stench of déjà vu -
breathing heavily to empty lungs,
air spinning out to stop and slow,
harden into concrete.

Driving away from this place,
all of the pretty Connecticut girls
are passing me by.

These days, lifting and carrying, straining with everything I have,
I’m building up again -
finished with living in rubble,
of picking through debris and
calling it justified.

Kept inside this rotted tree,
I am sick of scrabbling for cracked open acorns -
fallen crabapples.

Driving as fast as I can,
all of the pretty Connecticut girls are going north,
wrapped in sunglasses,
passing me by.